Miles and Miles of Endless Road
by thundercalls
Summary: "Marcy sent these over from the crime scene lab." He breached the subject, handing Stiles the evidence baggie. He wasn't prepared for Stiles to snatch the plastic from his hands and hug it to his chest, ducking his head to inhale deeply and exhale his relief roughly. "If I'd known… if you'd just asked…" - Sterek at the end if you squint really hard.


The first time Stiles asks when his Jeep will be out of the evidence garage, the Sheriff has to tell his son that the crime lab are still processing the blood and bone fragments from the under carriage. The wince that Stiles provides at the imagery tells him he was right not to provide the tidbit about some weird reptilian DNA found in his backseat. He just hopes that it's not another stray pet and he'll find a full grown boa under his son's bed like when he was eight.

The twelfth time is not long after getting dragged home by the scruff of his neck after having to interrogate his son and moronic friend about supposedly kidnapping Jackson Whittemore. The answer is something close to 'when hell freezes over' but with more colorful language.

He gets the call right before the twentieth time, but Stiles rants and raves for ten minutes before dramatically proclaiming that this wasn't fair. He then accused the Sheriff of doing this on purpose, leaving his son without his car so he'll have to be more dependent on his dad. He told his son that life wasn't fair and to get a helmet, before hanging up angrily. After a beat, he calls back to Joe down in the impound lot and asks for a favor to keep the Jeep on ice for a couple more weeks and that _yes,_ _he knows _he just said that he'd be by to fill out the release papers after work. He goes to make an excuse, but Joe hums knowingly and says he'll make sure nothing happens to Stiles' Jeep.

He feels like a moron for not getting it sooner when a delivery from the lab lands on his desk three days later. Stiles has been abstinently silent since their phone call, barely breathing a word to his father unless it was a terse reminder about his cholesterol.

He cuts open the plastic envelope, reads over the note with the evidence bag. It's the contents of Stiles' Jeep. Marcy says she's ditched the trash items – food wrappers mostly – but thought that Stiles would want these things back immediately.

Rubbing his fingers over the evidence baggie to sort through the items in it without opening it, his stomach drops at what he finds.

He makes his way home slowly that night, lost at how to proceed as he closes the front door behind him. He hears a thump on the ceiling from Stiles' floor, sighs as he imagines Stiles flailing about in an attempt to hide whatever it is he hides these days (which is pretty much everything). Taking off his belt and locking away his weapon, he puts off the inevitable and climbs the stairs to where his son will be moping about house arrest in his bedroom.

Stiles heard him coming no doubt, assuming the position: crossed arms over his chest and scowl on his face in a look that was probably meant to look defiant and irritated, but mostly made him look like a petulant six year old. If only. Things were simpler when Stiles was still dragging home bunnies or snakes or birds or that one time with the foot and a half long turtle he helped cross the street – never a dog or cat 'cause those would be too easy – begging his parents that he could keep it. Doc Deaton was on their top five for speed dial during those years.

"Marcy sent these over from the crime scene lab." He breached the subject, handing Stiles the evidence baggie. He wasn't prepared for Stiles to snatch the plastic from his hands and hug it to his chest, ducking his head to inhale deeply and exhale his relief roughly. "If I'd known… if you'd just asked…"

"I didn't want you pulling strings for me any more than you already have." Stiles said, tearing away the evidence seal and grabbing out the three most important pieces of the contents. He grips the locket in a fist, runs his fingers lovingly over the worn photograph and then reads the birthday card once, twice, three times before he's sure that it's all the same after weeks of being without them.

The Sheriff sits on Stiles' bed, hands gripping his knees and shoulders tense. "I figured you had a picture of her in your wallet, but I didn't know about the locket and the card."

Stiles looks uncomfortable, eyes darting around his room nervously and lingering on his closest for a moment too long before he curls his arms into his chest, protectively hiding the items. "The picture's usually in my visor so that when I pull it down and I'm driving, I remember to…" His voice chokes, coughs through it, "I remember to go the speed limit, look all the ways if I'm first at a green light to make sure no one's shooting through a red or yellow because they're texting or going too fast or… drunk. I just… I remember."

"And you avoid Blake Street." The Sheriff tacks on, nodding his head like he understands.

"I don't care about my Jeep, dad. I just needed this stuff."

The Sheriff nods, standing from his perch on the bed. He hesitates a moment as he goes to make his exit, before turning around and laying a kiss on his boy's forehead. "I love you, kid. Never forget that, okay?"

Stiles nods, watching his father depart the room and closing the door softly behind him.

There are several beats of silence in his room, only the thump of his father's retreating footsteps, before he shakily lays the three items out on his desk. He fiddles for a moment, making sure the edges are lined and straight with the photograph and the card, makes sure the locket is stretched out and that there aren't any knots in the chain.

He doesn't jump, simply tenses, when he feels the presence behind his back. He wants to say he'd forgotten that he was in the closet, but it was hard to forget as he shared a piece of himself with his father, and then they both ended up sharing a bit with the Alpha hiding between his plaid pullovers and ratty jeans.

"What about the card?" There was an uncharacteristic softness to Derek's voice, his hand a comfort on Stiles' shoulder as he peered at the Spongebob illustration.

"It's the last birthday card she gave me before she was killed."

Derek takes in the large yellow writing made to look like sponges over Spongebob and Patrick, talking about his ninth birthday. His fingers squeeze reflexively, offering comfort in their similarity: losing family too soon. They may be at opposite ends of the spectrum, and both will recognize that what Derek lost was infinitely worse, but Stiles had suffered pain and tragedy and loss just like him.

"The bestiary can wait 'til tomorrow." Derek says, heading for the window and looking out to make sure the Sheriff hadn't ventured outside. As he vaults through the window, he doesn't look back because he can smell the salt of tears in the air, still fresh and untainted by the oils of the skin they'll fall down as soon as Stiles is alone. He figures he owes Stiles that much.


End file.
